


Smoke and Mirrors

by Emospritelet



Series: Drinking To Forget [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Crime Scenes, F/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: It's Detective Weaver's night off, but his date with Lacey is interrupted when the body of a murder victim is found.  He and French must enlist the help of Alice and employ some of Weaver's more specialist skills to get the information they want.  Lacey waits back at his apartment for late-night smut, and he tries to ignore his growing feelings for her.





	Smoke and Mirrors

The first snows had fallen, and Lacey shivered as she hurried along the street to Roni’s, chin tucked into her scarf.  Winter in Seattle was bitter, and she wished she had bought a decent coat, instead of spending most of last week’s wages on rent.  It wouldn’t do her any good having a roof over her head if she froze to death in the meantime.  It was a relief to push open the door to the bar and slip inside, the familiar warmth washing over her.  Stamping snow from her shoes (which were also not in the least bit practical, if she was honest) she glanced around the place.  It was busier than usual, customers crammed by the bar, others huddling together around tables, all trying to escape the cold outside.  Her face broke into a smile as she saw a familiar figure leaning on the bar, brown leather jacket stretched across his shoulders and blue jeans hugging his butt.  She hurried over, tapping Weaver’s shoulder and making him turn.

“Hey,” she said, a little breathlessly, and he smiled.

“Lacey,” he said.  “What can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” she said, and he grinned.

“That comes later.”

“I can have more than one surprise, right?”

“Oh, I would hope so.”  He gestured to the tables.  “Go find us somewhere to sit.  Roni’s rushed off her feet this evening, so this could take a while.”

He turned back without kissing her, and she rolled her eyes at his back, stomping off to one of the tables on the far wall, near a heater glowing orange-red and sending out delicious warmth.  She shrugged off her coat immediately, unwinding the scarf and shoving it in her pocket.

“Hey, beautiful.”

A strange voice made her look around, and she curled her lip.  A dark-haired man around ten years older than her was standing far too close, one foot on the empty chair next to her as though he wanted to show her as much of his crotch as he could.  He had the sort of standard good looks that she would ordinarily have found attractive, but she wasn’t even mildly interested.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Nah,” she said, and jerked her head towards the bar.  “I got one coming.”

“Oh yeah?” he said.  “From who?”

“Brown leather jacket, jeans, cute arse,” she said, and the man looked over at the bar.

“What, _that_ guy?”  He turned back in disbelief.  “You’re kidding me.”

“Why’s that so surprising?” she asked, frowning at him.

“Well, he’s short, and - and _old_ , and—”

“He’d kick your arse,” said Lacey scathingly.  “But by all means go tell him what you just told me.”

“He got money, or something?” he guessed, and she sighed.

“He’s a detective,” she said, her voice lofty.

At that moment Weaver returned, drinks in hands.  His eyes narrowed as he looked at the man, his mouth twisting.

“Who’s this?” he asked quietly.

“He was hitting on me,” said Lacey carelessly.  “Unsuccessfully, I might add.”

Weaver jerked his head at the man.

“Well, go on then, piss off.”

The man straightened up and opened his mouth, his chest swelling as he appeared ready to bluster.  Weaver stared at him calmly, but Lacey recognised the expression in his eyes, the darkness there oozing out and wrapping around him like a shroud.  It was the same intensity he displayed when they were intimate, but with a different intention behind it.  It made her shiver.  The man seemed to recognise it too, and closed his mouth with a snap, nodding once and stomping off.  Weaver sat down without a word, setting down her glass, and Lacey ran a hand over his thigh.

“Can’t tell if I’m turned on or terrified,” she remarked, and he sent her a slanting grin.

“Was that idiot bothering you?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Nah.  Seen off a hundred like that,” she said, and picked up her drink, ice cubes clinking in the glass.  “What’s this?”

“That,” he said.  “Is a Rusty Nail.  I thought we’d stick with the whisky theme, but mix it up a bit.  It’s whisky and Drambuie.”

Lacey took a sip.  It was sweet, the whisky liqueur adding notes of spice and honey, the warmth on her tongue a delicious contrast to the ice.

“Yum,” she said approvingly, and he grinned.

“Thought you might like it.”

He took a sip of his own, setting it down on the table, and glanced at her.

“So, how was your day?”

“Shit,” she said bluntly.  “I’ve been in this bar for like ten minutes and no one’s kissed me yet.”

He grinned at that, and reached up with a hand to cup her cheek, fingers curling around her jaw and pulling her gently in for a kiss.  Lacey closed her eyes, smelling cologne on his fingers, enjoying the taste of the drink on his tongue.  She pulled back, giving him a final kiss, and smiled.

“Better,” she whispered.  “How was _your_ day?”

Weaver let his head roll back with a sigh, stretching in his seat and letting out a low grunt that was very distracting, and she grinned.

“How _is_ the eager young Detective settling in?” she asked knowingly, and he turned his head towards her.

“He’s an overly-earnest, way-too-literal, scholarly, pedantic pain in my arse,” he said, gesturing with chopping motions of his hand.

“I’m sure he just wants to make you proud,” she said diplomatically.

“I’m not his bloody father,” he said impatiently.  “And if he wants to learn from me, then he needs to do things my bloody way and not quote bloody procedure at me the whole time!”

Lacey shrugged, taking another drink.

“Well, I’m sure you started out being a stickler for the rules,” she said.  “Or were you always a sneaky little bastard?”

Weaver chuckled, his eyes gleaming, and he leaned in.

“What do you think?” he whispered, and she giggled, kissing him.

“Okay, point taken,” she said, and took another drink.  “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Maybe I should get some Drambuie for when you come over,” he said.

“Yeah, you could suck it out of my navel,” she said cheekily, and his eyes darkened.

“Now, there’s a promise,” he growled, and kissed her, more roughly, his lips sticky from the liqueur.  Lacey let out a contented murmur as she pulled back.

“Roni not giving you shit tonight?” she asked, and he glanced over at the bar.

“One of her staff quit,” he said.  “She’s short-handed, which means she’s stressed.  And less likely to throw us out for having a little fun.”

Lacey grinned at his wicked look.

“Even so,” she said.  “I think we could have a lot more fun back at your place, what do you say?”

“When you finish your drink,” he said, and kissed her again.

* * *

He was reluctant to leave the warmth of the bar, but Lacey’s suggestion of going back to his place was a sensible one, given his rising need for her, and so they finished their drinks and donned their coats, and ducked out into the freezing air.  Lacey was tucked by his side, his arm around her, chattering away about how bloody cold it was, and her double-shift the next day.

“So by all means give me a hangover,” she finished.  “Because I’ll probably feel like I wanna die anyway.”

“I have whisky and beer,” he told her.  “I can pour you one of either as soon as we get in.”

They turned into the street where his apartment was, and Lacey giggled, her hand clutching at his shirt.

“Well, not as _soon_ as we get in,” she said.  “There’s other stuff I’d like to concentrate on first.”

Her fingers brushed over his nipple, tweaking it, and he groaned, slowing to a stop and pulling her to him.

“Oh yeah?” he growled.  “Like what?”

She smiled up at him, the glow from the streetlights illuminating her beautiful face.

“You know what,” she whispered, and he kissed her, his arms going around her waist, her mouth hot and hungry.

Turning, he pushed her against the wall of the apartment building, hands sliding up her body to cup and squeeze, and Lacey moaned, pushing herself against him.  His hands slid down to her thighs, naked beneath the little skirt and the coat that barely covered her arse, her skin pebbled with the cold.  He slid his hands upward, running them over her hips beneath the skirt, feeling the thin string of her thong and the edge of lace that ran down between her legs.  Lacey let out a gasp, and he let his lips brush over hers, his breath shaking a little.

“Let’s get to my place,” he whispered, trailing a finger along the seam at the top of her thigh.  “I can think of a great many things I’d like to do to you.”

“God, me too.”  Her smile was wicked.  “Wanna compare notes?”

Her lips brushed his again, and she moaned as his finger slipped beneath the edge of her panties, brushing through wet petals of flesh.  He let his tongue push in between her lips, one finger sliding inside her, and she rose up on her toes with a moan of pleasure as the finger pushed deep.  His other hand cupped her breast, and he began to rub at her, his finger sliding in and out of her slick heat.  He added another, groaning into her mouth as he felt her grip him tightly.  Her tongue was hot and sweet, and his lips slid over hers, wet and slippery with saliva as he fingered her roughly.  Lacey moaned, sliding one leg up his, her foot hooking behind his knee and pulling him against her, and he pulled his mouth free, kissing down her neck and biting down into her soft skin.

“Um - Detective Weaver?”

The unwelcome voice of Detective French pierced his consciousness, and Lacey squeaked in surprise, dropping her leg and clutching at his shoulders.  Weaver groaned before pulling back and turning with a glare that he wished could skin the man alive.

“Little busy here!” he snapped, his hand still up Lacey’s skirt.

“Sorry.”  French ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable.  “I - um - I take it this is one of your informants on the vice front?  Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“What?” asked Weaver, perplexed.

_“What?”_ echoed Lacey dangerously, her eyes flashing.  French blinked.

“I - I just thought…”

“You thought _what_ , Detective?” asked Weaver impatiently.

“He thought I was a bloody prostitute!” snapped Lacey, glaring at French.

“Oh, then you’re not?”  French looked surprised.  “Sorry - um - I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion, I just thought...  Not that I’m judging. I - I mean there’s nothing wrong with that.  Well, except the illegal part.  Anyway, I’m sorry.  It was the outfit, and the fact that…”

He trailed off lamely, and Weaver sighed, slipping his hand out from beneath Lacey’s skirt and turning to face French, who to his credit was now looking mortified, a faint blush showing in his cheeks.  Cold air bit at Weaver’s fingers, still coated in Lacey’s juices, and he folded his arms to hide the evidence.

“What do you want, Detective?”

“There’s been a murder,” said French, very pointedly not looking at Lacey.  “The station couldn’t reach you, so I said I’d come and find you.  They think it’s connected to the King investigation.”

Weaver growled under his breath, and dug in the pocket of his jacket for the keys to his apartment.  He turned back to Lacey, holding them up.

“Let yourself in,” he said.  “Lock the door behind you, I have a spare at the station.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She nodded, shooting French another frosty look, which made Weaver want to kiss her again.  He settled for a swift press of his lips on hers, then turned on his heel and followed French’s tall figure along the darkened alley.  There was silence for a minute or two as they walked to his car.  French got in without a word, Weaver on the other side, and the engine started up, the car pulling away and turning onto the main street.

“Where’s the body?” asked Weaver.

“A warehouse down on Fourth,” said French, glancing to the side before turning.  “Pretty fresh, by all accounts.  It’s still warm.”

“Right.  Forensics?”

“They’re on their way,”

“Good.”

There was silence again, and French drew to a stop at a set of red lights.

“So,” he said.  “That’s your girlfriend?”

“How about you limit your investigative zeal to this new case?”

“Oh, okay.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Didn’t realise it was such a complex question.”

“What it is is none of your business,” snapped Weaver.

“Okay.  Sure.”

“Just fucking drive, would you?” he growled.  “It’s supposed to be my bloody night off.”

* * *

French pulled up outside a warehouse, the outside nondescript, paint peeling from the window frames and a large stain stretching up about three yards from the main door.  Weaver nodded to the police officers standing there.

“Anyone see anything?” he asked, anticipating the answer.

“If they did, they ain’t saying,” said the officer, with a twist of his mouth.  “Nothing but street rats, hobos and whores around here after dark.”

“Yes, and I’m sure they have just as fine an opinion of us,” said Weaver dryly, and nudged French’s arm.  “Come on, let’s see what we have.”

He pushed open the door, ducking inside with French following in his wake.  The forensic team had not yet arrived, but there were several officers with flashlights trained on the body that sprawled on the cold concrete.  It was a man in his thirties, dark haired and naked except for a pair of blood-stained boxers, a rope around his throat.  Weaver pulled latex gloves onto his hands and squatted down, frowning as he recognised the face, despite its swollen, bruised appearance.

“I know this guy,” he said quietly.

“An informant?” asked French, and he shook his head.

“A scumbag.  A would-be player who was really a molester.  I beat him up a few times.  Couple of weeks ago, in fact.”

“You - beat him up…”  French scratched his head.  “Um, should you—”

“If you’re looking to be my conscience, remember that you already have a full-time job,”  snapped Weaver.  “His name’s Keith.”

“Right,” said French.  “I’ll - I’ll check him out.”

“I know he works for George King, but yes.  See what you can find out.”

Weaver traced his finger along the thin rope tied around the man’s neck.

“Throttled, then,” he said.  “But was that the cause of death?”

“There’s something else,” said French, bending over with his hands on his knees.  “It looks as though a chunk of his skin’s been taken off.  Down here on his left calf.”

“Interesting.”  Weaver looked around.  “Lots of blood there.  Was probably done while he was still alive.”

“He was beaten pretty badly, too,” said French, pointing at the bruises mottling the man’s skin.

“Well, if you’d ever met him you could understand why,” he said, and waved a hand at French’s widened eyes.  “Stop looking at me like that, you’ll start thinking this way before you’re six months in the job, believe me.”

“Looks as though someone cut his nuts off,” put in one of the officers.  “Not that much blood, though.”

“Post-mortem, then, most likely,” said Weaver.  “We’ll know more with the autopsy.”

French was looking around the warehouse, and up at the metal struts that ran across the roof.

“Looks like he may have been hung from there,” he said, pointing to a small area above them that was clear of dust.  Weaver nodded.

“So why would someone lure him out to this place, get him half-naked and then strangle him?” he mused.  “And why cut his bollocks off afterwards?”

“Sexual elements in homicide often have links to childhood trauma and formative events such as deviant parental models or negative social attachment,” said French, sounding as though he was reciting from a textbook.

“It was a rhetorical question, Detective,” sighed Weaver.  “I bloody well know why people like to fuck each other over, thank you.”

“Oh.”

“The question is, was this an extremely kinky game that got interrupted by the killer, an intentional hit from another gang, an inside job, or just a random psycho?” he went on, tapping a finger against his lips.  “That was also rhetorical, by the way.  I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Perhaps it was revenge,” suggested French.  “You said the man was a player.  Perhaps he played with the wrong person.”

“Could be,” agreed Weaver, straightening up.  “We’ll wait to see what forensics can tell us.”  He looked at one of the officers.  “Who owns this place?”

“Midas Associates,” said the woman.

“King’s financial partners,” said French, and Weaver’s mouth twitched.

“Good,” he said.  “You’ve been reading the files, I see.  Come on, then.  Let’s hit the streets.”

They went out into the cold night again, and Weaver turned his collar up against the cold as they walked up the street towards the car.

“Doubt we’ll get the autopsy results until tomorrow, and even then it’s gonna be only the most basic stuff like time of death,” he said.  “We’re gonna go find my best informant, see what she has to say, and then I suggest you get some rest.  I know I intend to.”

* * *

Alice was out when they got to her warehouse, and Weaver’s mouth flattened as he wondered how long they would have to wait for her return.

“Doesn’t she have a phone?” asked French.

“I’ve given her one a few times,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to clear his tired eyes.  “She’ll keep it around for a few days, and then she’ll ‘lose’ it.  By which I assume means that she trades it for something else.  Bit of a collector.”

“Can’t get much of a signal down here anyway.”  Alice’s voice made him look up, and he saw her standing on top of a shipping container, watching them curiously.  “This your new partner?”

“Get down from there,” he said impatiently, holding up his hands, and she sat down, scooting forward to the edge on her butt before jumping down.  He grasped her arms to steady her, and she grinned up at him.

“Supposed to be your night off, Detective,” she said.  “Can’t be what you wanted, chasing through cold alleyways after the likes of me.  Good thing you have something warm to go home to, hmm?”

“Let’s leave my private life out of this, for once,” he said.  “This is Detective French.  He might sometimes ask you for information, but he’s working with me, okay?”

“Hmm.”  Alice looked French up and down.  “Very clean-cut to be working with you.  I take it you haven’t corrupted him yet.”

“Can we get down to discussing something I actually want to talk about?” asked Weaver, and Alice pushed back from him, sweeping a bow.

“Step into my office, gentlemen,” she said, and trotted over to the warehouse.

They followed her in, climbing the wooden stairs up to her little makeshift room.  Some of the children that she shared the warehouse with were around, but they scattered like rabbits at the sight of the two detectives.  French looked around with interest, eyeing the books on the shelves and the trinkets she had.  Alice sat down on her bed, grinning up at them, and Weaver raised an eyebrow.

“Well?” he said.

“I saw him go into the warehouse,” she said.  “But whoever did the deed was already in there, because I didn’t see anyone else go in.  Then I saw the man who bought me breakfast turn up in a Toyota.  Florida license plate.  Whoever killed the guy came out wrapped in something like a cloak, like they were cosplaying or something.  Didn’t see their face, but I’m pretty sure it was a woman.”

“A woman?” said Weaver, and she shrugged.

“By the height and the way she walked, I think so.  She got into the Toyota and drove off.”

“And the man who bought you breakfast?”

“Oh, I found out about him,” said Alice carelessly.  “His name’s Donnie Schwartz.  New in town.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Two-bit villain who seeks out the biggest bully in the schoolyard to hang with,” she said.  “He’s working for George King, so I’m guessing the woman is, too.”

Weaver frowned, drumming his fingers against his thigh.  “Anything else?”

“I could try to find out who the woman is, if you like,” she said.

“Don’t put yourself in danger,” he warned.  “Why don’t you tell me more about this Schwartz character?”

“I know he was in Roni’s bar half an hour ago,” she said.

“Describe him,” said Weaver, and she shrugged.

“Not very tall,” she said.  “Brown hair and a beard.  Cheap shoes.  Bandage across his knuckles, like he punched a wall or something.”

“You think he’ll still be there?”

“I’m guessing that he gets involved in one bloody murder and he’s done for the night,” she said dryly.  “So he probably intends getting drunk.  Looks like a drinker.”

Weaver tapped French on the shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

He trotted down the steps, hearing French follow him.

“Keep your boy out of trouble, Detective,” Alice called after them.  “His mother wouldn’t like it if he ends up getting shot!”

* * *

By the time they got to Roni’s, the bar was even busier, and Weaver had to search through the press of bodies to find the man he sought.  Schwartz was sitting at one of the little tables, a beer in front of him and a strip of bandage over the knuckles of his right hand, as Alice had described.  He was a little plump, with the baggy eyes of of a drinker.  Weaver dropped into a chair next to him and nodded to French, who sat down on the other side.  Schwartz eyed them suspiciously.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked.  “Fuck off, would you?  I prefer drinking alone.”

His accent sounded faintly Antipodean, and Weaver wondered at the number of foreigners in Seattle.  It seemed as though he hardly ever met anyone who was actually born there.  He made a mental note to ask French how he had ended up there.

“We’re with the Seattle Police Department,” he said.  “Like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts this evening.”

“We’d also like to search your car,” added French, and the man sat back.

“You want to search my car, you’d better go get a warrant,” he said.  “And while you’re at it you’d better get me a lawyer.  Because I ain’t telling you shit without one.  You’ve got nothing on me.”

He sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, and Weaver nodded, as though he were listening.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s very interesting, that’s—”

Without warning he grabbed at the man’s head, fingers twisting in his hair as he banged his face into the table top, making French jump.  There was a crunching sound and a bellow of pain, and he wrenched the head up again, Schwartz rocking back in his chair with blood spurting from his nose and trickling into his beard.

“You _bastard_!” he roared.

“Um…” said French uneasily, and Weaver lifted a finger.

“Don’t you fucking ‘um’ me, son!” he warned.  “You fucking ‘um’ me one more time and you and I are gonna have a problem.”

“No, it’s just that under title 8 of the Manual on use of force, protocol states—”

“Do I look like I give a flying fuck about protocol?” demanded Weaver.  “How about you make yourself useful and get something from Roni to wipe this mess up with, while I have a word with our friend here?”

French hesitated, but wandered off, and Weaver turned back to Schwartz.

“Now,” he said.  “You need to answer some fucking questions, before I really lose my temper.  You collected someone from a warehouse down on Fourth tonight.  Who was it?”

“Fuck you!” gasped the man, fingers pressed to his nose to staunch the blood.  Weaver smiled coldly.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I’ll say it a little louder then, go screw yourself!”

Weaver batted his hands away and tugged on his broken nose, making him roar with pain.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“You _bastard_!”

“Who was in the car?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted.  “I drive for fucking Swyft, okay?”

“No you don’t,” said Weaver flatly.  “I’m almost certain you’re working for King, which means you’re a piece of crap.  Which also means I have no qualms about beating the living shit out of you to get the information I want.”

“I have _rights_!”

“And you can bore someone to death whining about them when we’re done,” he said.  “Up to you whether you do it after you give me what I want, or after I’ve broken every one of your fucking fingers.”

“I don’t know who she was!” insisted Schwartz.  “I was told to drive to the warehouse and pick her up, that’s it!  She had this weird cloak thing on the whole time.  I never saw her face.”

“And you took her where?”

“Belfrey Industries.”

“Who told you to collect her?”

“I got a booking on the app,” he said.  “I wasn’t kidding when I said I drive for Swyft.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Hands shaking, Schwartz dug in his pocket for his phone, and Weaver watched closely as he flicked his finger over the screen.  He held up the phone, showing his last job in the Swyft app.  The account name was Black, and Weaver sighed.

“Black, hmm?” he said dryly.  “A fake name, I presume?”

“How would I know?” asked Schwartz.  “I didn’t know her, I swear!”

Weaver sat back, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.  Perhaps the man was telling the truth about merely being hired to drive, but he suspected not.  He sensed that he didn’t know who the woman was, though.

“Alright,” he said.  “That’s enough for now, but I feel confident that our paths will cross again.”

“Not if I can fucking help it,” muttered Schwartz.

* * *

By the time he got back to his apartment, it was one in the morning, and the place was dark and silent.  For a moment he thought Lacey had gone back to her own place, but then he saw her coat, hanging on a hook next to his, and her shoes stacked neatly underneath, and he smiled to himself.  He dropped his keys and badge on the hall table, taking off his own shoes and jacket, and went through to the bedroom.  The only light there was filtered through the curtains from the streetlights outside, but it was enough to make out a shape in the bed, dark hair spread out on the pillows.  He tried to be as quiet as he could, unbuckling his belt and slipping off his jeans.  He stripped off his shirt, sitting down on the edge of the bed in his boxers and undershirt with a sigh of relief.

“Time is it?” asked Lacey, her voice drowsy.

“It’s late,” he said.  “Go back to sleep.”

There was a rustle of the bedclothes, and she moved, sliding across the sheets to put her hands on his shoulders.  He let his head roll back at her touch, and she kissed the back of his neck, the brush of her lips making him shiver.

“Did you get the bad guys?” she asked, and he chuckled.

“Don’t even know who the particular bad guys are right now,” he said wearily.  “I beat someone up for information, does that count?”

“Your partner said someone was murdered,” she said.  “Who - who was it?”

“That guy we ran into in the alley the night we met,” he said.  “So, at least it was no one the world will miss. I’ll need to wait for the autopsy, but - I don’t know, there’s something strange about it.”

“Like what?”

Weaver waved a hand.

“Never mind.  It’s gruesome, and I don’t want to say anything until we know more.”

“How’s French handling it?” she asked, and he was surprised at the tone of concern in her voice.

“Surprisingly well,” he admitted.  “The boy manages to maintain an objective air, at least.  And he reads the files thoroughly.  I think he’ll make a good detective, if he can just learn to bend the rules a little.”

She slipped off the bed, straddling his lap.  She was wearing one of his white shirts, the top three buttons undone, and he slid his arms around her waist with a sigh, pulling her close.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I don’t suppose this was how you wanted to spend your evening.  It certainly wasn’t how I wanted to spend mine.”

Lacey shrugged.

“My other plans would have been eating take-out pizza and watching a terrible movie,” she said.  “And I still got to do that.  In a much nicer apartment.”

He grinned at that, and she tilted her head, eyeing him shrewdly.

“What’s up?” she asked.  “I mean apart from the random dead guy and the fact that you don’t know who killed him?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I just - I’ve been feeling this way for days, like there’s something out there that’s fucking huge, but - invisible.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, I know.”  He closed his eyes.  “I can’t explain it.”

She waited silently, her fingers stroking through the hair at the back of his neck, and his eyes flicked open to meet hers.

“There’s something I’m missing, Lacey,” he whispered, letting his hands settle at her waist.  “Something right in front of me, like - like it’s there, at the back of my mind, waiting for me.  Every time I try to grasp it, it slips away, like it’s made of smoke.”

“So maybe stop trying so hard,” she suggested.  “Maybe you’ll see it out of the corner of your eye, instead of trying to look at it head on.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said wearily, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Maybe you should try a distraction,” she said then, and he pulled her close against him.

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

He reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb sliding over soft skin, and leaned in to kiss her.  Lacey moaned a little as his tongue slipped in between her lips, her nails scraping his scalp.  He kissed her slowly, his lips sliding against hers, his tongue stroking, and she was as sweet and delicious as ever.  She shifted on his lap, and he lifted a hand to cup her through the shirt, making her moan again.  His thumb rubbed at her, feeling the hard peak of her nipple through the cotton, and her fingers twisted in his hair as she pushed into his hand.  Lacey broke the kiss, her lips trailing along his jaw and down his throat as her hands slid down over his chest, and he let out a groan, his head rolling back.

She sucked at his skin, hard enough to leave a mark, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him and making him harden.  Her tongue swept over the bite, up the length of his throat, and she sat back a little, her breathing unsteady as she pressed her forehead to his.  Weaver reached for the buttons of her shirt, gently pulling them open one by one, the shirt gaping to expose the inner slopes of her breasts, the shadow of her navel and the slight curve of her belly.  He slipped his hands inside, around her waist, bending to take a nipple in between his lips, and Lacey gasped as he sucked at her, her back arching a little as she rose up on her knees.  His hands squeezed her buttocks, pulling her tight until she was grinding and rubbing against his cock, the feel of her making him want to burst.

He was panting, his breath hard and hot against her skin, and he slid his hands up to her shoulders, pushing the shirt from them and dragging it roughly down her upper arms, pinning them to her sides as he exposed her.  The light from outside shone on her pale skin, her curves beautiful in the low light, the nipples hard and dark and glistening from his mouth.  He bent his head to her again, his tongue swirling, his lips sucking at her, and Lacey moaned, her head rolling back, her dark curls tickling the arm he held tight around her waist.  He kissed up her chest, tongue running over the heavy throb of her pulse.  Her moan of response made him bite down hard, and the moan became a cry, Lacey rubbing against him, the sensation pulling a low groan from him.

He nipped at her jaw, his mouth finding hers, his tongue stabbing and stroking, and one hand dipped beneath the tails of the shirt, sliding up her inner thigh to brush through her soft folds.  She was wet and ready, and he stroked her gently before sliding a finger deep inside her, up to the knuckle.  Lacey gasped, her breath hot against his lips, and he pushed another finger into her, both of them sliding, thrusting, rubbing as his thumb danced over her clit and she bucked against his hand.  He kept a steady rhythm, sensing her rising pleasure, and loosened the arm around her waist, reaching up to twist a hand in her hair.  Lacey moaned, and he kissed down her neck to suck at her breasts again, his fingers still thrusting in and out of her.  Her breathing was hard and uneven, her muscles growing taut as her climax neared, and she cried out as she came, clenching around his fingers, heat and wetness drenching his hand and the scent of her pleasure in his nose.

His other hand was still buried in her hair as he drew out the fingers, slippery with her juices, and Lacey was staring at him, eyes wide and dark in the dim light as she tried to catch her breath.  He slipped a finger into his mouth, groaning in pleasure as he sucked off the taste of her, and held the other up to her.  She opened her mouth, and he pushed the finger inside, sliding over the swell of her lower lip, feeling her tongue wrap around him as she sucked.  The sight of it, the feel of it, made his cock twitch, and he drew out the finger to kiss her messily, tasting her bliss on his tongue, spreading her scent on her lips and chin.

He stripped the shirt from her, tugging it down over her wrists, and her arms wrestled free, the shirt fluttering to the floor.  Lacey’s hands sank into his hair, her nails scratching at him, and she pressed herself against him, breasts pushing into his chest as they kissed.  He wanted her with a fierce urgency, desperate to be inside her, and her hands stroked down his back, tugging at his undershirt and lifting it over his head.  She pushed him onto his back, slipping from his lap for a moment so that she could tug off his underwear, and then she was back, taking him in hand and squeezing hard enough to make him growl before she released him, his cock falling against his belly with a soft thump.  Lacey leaned forward, her hair hanging in his face as she looked down on him.

“You wanted to feel every bit of me, right?” she whispered, and shifted her hips, rubbing herself over the length of him so that he could feel her heat, her slippery wetness.

_“Fuck!”_ he gasped, and she ground her hips, soft flesh moving over him, her entrance just catching the head of his cock before sliding past.  Lacey bent her head to lick up his neck.

“Do you want me?” she breathed.  “You want to slide deep inside me?  You want me to fuck you hard?”

“Lacey, _please_!”

She moved her hips again, tender flesh capturing the head of his cock and letting it slide in a little way.  He groaned, arching his back, his jaw tightening as she pulled off again.

“You’re a fucking tease, woman!”

“Yeah, and you love it.”

She bent to kiss him, her mouth hot and wet, the taste of her still on her tongue, and he felt her shift her hips again, one hand reaching down between them to line them up.  Her lips pulled at his as the kiss broke, and she pushed up a little, gazing into his eyes as she slowly sank down onto him.  Weaver groaned at the feel of her, silk and velvet, hot and wet and snug all around him, gripping him tight.  A very quiet voice at the back of his mind was whispering that having unprotected sex with her probably wasn’t the best idea, but _God_ it felt good!  It felt _right_.

Lacey had taken him all the way inside, and braced her hands on his belly as she shook her hair back.  Weaver ran his hands up her pale thighs as she began to move, rocking slowly against him, her flesh tugging at him and sending delightful bursts of sensation through him.  Her thumbs found his nipples, pressing and circling and pinching, and he groaned at the feel of her, watching her as she moved, her skin almost luminous in the pale light.  God, she was beautiful!  She moved slowly, rhythmically, pulling at him, and sweat began to form where her thighs gripped his sides and in the burning heat where their bodies joined.  A moan erupted from her, her head rolling as she rocked back and forth, and he watched her intently, noticing the tiny changes that indicated that she was close, that she would come.

Her movements quickened a little, her hips grinding, and he sat up, one arm snaking around her waist and pulling her tight against him to increase the friction.  His other hand tangled in her hair again, his kisses hard and passionate, and Lacey let out a whimpering cry as she came, squeezing him hard.  Instantly he rolled them, pushing her onto her back, grasping her hands and pressing them into the blankets above her head as he thrust into her, his balls full and heavy, his cock ready to burst.  Lacey’s hands slid up his back, the nails scoring his shoulders, and he kissed her briefly, tasting the salt of her sweat.  He could feel his orgasm building, his body trembling.

“Oh, Lacey, I’m coming!” he whispered.  “Gonna come inside you!”

She wrapped her legs around him, holding him close, and he thrust deep into her with a long, groaning cry, lights bursting in his head and shivers rippling through him as he came hard, pouring himself into her.  The shock of it, the intensity of it, stole his breath, and for a moment all he could do was move with rapid, shallow thrusts, wordless cries coming from him, Lacey’s flesh gripping him tight and pulling every drop from him.  Eventually he slowed and stopped, letting out a low, shuddering sigh, his head drooping.  Lacey stroked soothing fingers through his hair, her legs sliding down from around his waist as he began to soften inside her.  He pushed himself up on his elbows, his limbs shaking, his skin still tingling, and she smiled up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy.

“That was beautiful,” she whispered.

_So are you.  God, you’re beautiful!  The most beautiful thing I ever saw.  And mine.  I know you’re mine.  As I am yours.  Maybe it’s fate, after all.  Maybe it’s meant to be, all of it.  Maybe Alice was right._

He wanted to say it.  To tell her how he felt, what he believed.  But running over it in his mind gave him pause.  They barely knew one another, after all, and if he told her half the things that Alice had said to him, she would think he was insane.  And so he kissed her instead, rolling off her onto his side and pulling her close against him.  He kissed her so he wouldn’t have to speak and break the spell.


End file.
